


it would go on roaring

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Bloodplay, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Castiel discovers what his grace does to Dean and has some realizations about himself.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 133
Collections: Anonymous





	it would go on roaring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cenotaphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [暗涌](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522476) by [MilkTeaAthlete (Kidolle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kidolle/pseuds/MilkTeaAthlete)



> Uh, so [fromcenotaphy](https://fromcenotaphy.tumblr.com/post/635865162651451392/fromcenotaphy-okay-okay-but-hbo-dean-think) on Tumblr has some concepts for HBO SPN and I was really interested in the part about grace-addicted Dean, so much so that I ended up knocking this out in 2 days. You should definitely check out their posts and this AU because it's really great!!! I don't know where this is set because I wrote it without thinking, so I imagine... maybe in s5? s6? Who knows! 
> 
> **Warnings:** Addiction, Self-Harm (Dean injures himself), a bit of bloodplay? If I missed something, please let me know!

It started with a prayer from Sam, simple and polite compared to the brazen nature of Dean. All he requested was for Castiel to meet him at the motel they were staying at, and if he could please hurry because Dean was out, and that's who he wanted to talk about. It was an odd prayer, but Castiel dutifully flew to their location, a part of him thrumming with worry over his charge.

"What's wrong with Dean?" he asked immediately, mentally going over how Dean looked the last time they saw one another (which had been approximately thirteen days, eighteen hours, twenty-three minutes, and seven seconds). Dean had been fine, if a little hurt—the Wendigo they were hunting had knocked Dean aside, which gave him a concussion, and also sank its claws into Dean's side in an attempt to drag him away from Sam.

Castiel had healed him unprompted, and Dean leaned into him with a drawn-out sigh when Castiel fed him grace. Dean curled one hand around Castiel’s wrist, beneath the open wound, and his warmth made Castiel’s pulse race. 

He distinctly recalled the way Dean’s pupils grew, his celestial vision allowing him to witness it even in darkness, and the sound of Dean’s soft, barely-there whimper sounded in his mind when Castiel reluctantly pulled away. Perhaps he missed something?

"I really don't know," Sam admitted, striding over to sit in a chair. He sank into it with a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s been more touchy than usual, and I think he’s barely sleeping. I thought it was just nightmares, y’know, but then I saw that his hands were shaking.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that something is wrong,” Castiel replied with apprehension. He glanced over at the motel door and extended his senses, searching for the soul he knew like the undersides of his wings. Dean was nowhere near the motel yet. “But why did that bring you alarm?”

“It’s not just that,” Sam continued. “The bags under his eyes are getting worse, and I swear he’s lost some weight. I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a full meal since the last time we saw you, and then there’s the—” He stopped and bit his lip.

“Sam,” Castiel said. “You can tell me.”

“The praying,” Sam whispered, and he averted his gaze. “I hear him at night. He keeps praying for you, and I don’t think he realizes it.”

Castiel leaned back and tried to recall if there had been any Dean prayers in the time that passed. There were a few moments where he thought he heard Dean’s frenzied voice, words too fast for him to follow, but it was always gone before he could focus hard enough on it. He never followed up on those prayers, thinking that it was a mistake since he heard nothing more.

“I don’t know what he prayed for,” he reluctantly admitted and took a seat across from Sam. He observed the younger Winchester’s face and caught the fleeting nervousness that appeared on his face. “Is there more?”

“It’s just weird,” Sam said with a frown. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that my brother was, uh, doing something terrible. A lot of his behavior reminds me of, well, me—when I was addicted to demon blood, I mean.”

“I see,” Castiel replied quietly and pursed his lips. That did not sound good. “Keep an eye on him, Sam, and let me know if there are any changes.”

“You don’t want to stick around and check him for yourself?” Sam asked, sounding surprised.

Castiel paused as he mulled it over. It would be easier to see what was wrong if he stayed, and he could probably get a better diagnosis if he let his grace brush over Dean’s soul. “I’ll stay,” he finally said and settled back against the chair. “Now, tell me what you’re hunting.”

Dean arrived twenty minutes after Castiel arrived, and he carried a plastic bag in each hand. One had two styrofoam containers, and the other had two white paper bags. The scent of grease and fried food filled the room after he shut the door, and he made his way over to the motel table with a bright grin.

“Got your rabbit food,” he said cheerfully as he placed the bags on the table. Their eyes met for a moment when Dean glanced over, and then he did a double-take. “Cas!” Dean said with surprise, but there was a hint of relief to his word, and the way he minutely relaxed was rather strange. “When did you get here?”

“I called him down for an opinion on the case,” Sam cut in. He pulled the containers out of the plastic bag and opened one of them, an expression of mild distaste on his face. Still, he started eating the salad before him. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dean asked. He took a seat beside Castiel, and their shoulders brushed when he shifted to get comfortable. “Fine with me.”

Castiel glanced at him and quietly observed the changes to Dean’s features—his cheekbones were more prominent, and his eyes looked hazy, as if caught in a fever. He discreetly brushed the tips of his fingers over Dean’s jacket and reached out with his grace to see what was wrong, but all he got was the sound of Dean’s hitched breath and the feeling of his soul reaching back in an attempt to hold on.

 _Strange,_ Castiel thought and quickly pulled back. Physically, there was nothing wrong with Dean, but something filled him with unease when they touched. He did not bring it up and instead sat back as he observed the Winchesters eat their food.

“Want some?” Dean eventually asked and slid one of the white paper bags across the table.

Castiel glanced at him and then peeked inside. “French fries,” he said and picked out one of the golden potato slices, a few grains of salt and seasoning falling off. He hesitated for a moment and then popped it into his mouth. Then, he grimaced.

“Molecules?” Dean supplied.

“Molecules,” Castiel agreed, though he kept eating. He enjoyed the crunch they made when he bit into them.

Dean stayed at the table when Sam decided to do some research on the bed, and Castiel watched as the older Winchester drummed his fingers across the table. His leg bounced, and his eyes kept flitting across the room. When Castiel breathed in, he could practically taste the anxiety that rushed through Dean, and it puzzled him. Why was Dean feeling this way?

Castiel also noticed that his meal was unfinished. Dean rarely left food behind, and if he did, then something was clearly wrong. 

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly and leaned over. He waited until Dean was looking at him before he asked, “Are you alright?”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Uh,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck. Castiel could sense that he was confused by the inquiry, but it seemed to fade into a restlessness that made his soul twist and shudder. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean answered and then stood up. “How about we put something on TV, huh? I could introduce you to another show.”

He made his way over to the motel bed and plopped down on top, arms crossed. Castiel followed after he exchanged a look with Sam and then took a seat beside Dean, their thighs pressed together as Dean turned the TV on, changing channels until he settled on an animated show with a talking dog.

The food remained unfinished.

❦ ❦ ❦

It was a simple spirit, something the Winchesters could easily tackle together, and Dean invited him to tag along. Castiel almost denied him, but there was something in his gaze that made him pause—a hunger that lurked in those bright green eyes that contrasted with his pale face.

“Okay,” Castiel said after a while, if only to keep an eye on his charge. “I will join you.”

“Great,” Dean said brightly. Relief flickered onto his face, and Castiel sensed the way his pulse raced. For what? “Let’s get going, then.”

Although the hunt was simple, Dean somehow managed to get thrown into two walls in the process of searching for whatever tethered the spirit to earth. Sam injured his leg when the spirit sent him through the floor, so Castiel had to tear up all the rooms to search for the object. It turned out to be a piece of the hair, and soon the spirit burned away, but not before injuring Dean further.

Castiel wondered why Dean didn’t shoot the spirit away.

He transported Sam to the car when he walked down to the basement, though he did not heal him just yet. Castiel wanted to check on Dean first, and the reckless human was using the doorway of the house as a crutch.

“Think I sprained something,” Dean muttered as he held his right wrist in his left hand. He stumbled down the porch and hissed when his left foot met the ground, and Castiel could see the limp that he was trying to hide.

“Would you like me to—”

“Yes,” Dean said quickly, already turned toward Castiel.

Castiel moved closer and manifested his angel blade. He raised it above his wrist, ready to split his skin open to feed his grace to Dean, but something made him pause. Castiel scrutinized Dean’s soul through angelic eyes and nearly gasped at the dark strands of greed that were woven into it, reaching towards Castiel with a thrum of desperation that frightened him.

“Perhaps I should heal Sam first,” Castiel said, eyes fixed on Dean’s face to catch his reaction. “I believe he may have broken something.” He paused, and although he disliked the idea, he forced himself to add, “A sprain can heal fine on its own.”

“N-No!” Dean said, and then he latched onto Castiel’s sleeve with his left hand. He did not meet Castiel’s gaze when he said, “Can’t you just heal me up right now, Cas? I mean, it’ll make things easier, won’t it?” He chuckled, though there was an edge of hysteria to it, and Castiel thought it matched the way his soul twisted and warped, the greed only growing.

It worried him further. Dean wanting to be healed before Sam could only mean the end of times. “Dean,” he said and gently pried Dean’s fingers off of his sleeve. “You don’t need me to heal everything for you.”

Dean looked stricken. “Cas,” he rasped and actually sank to his knees. He stared up at Castiel with wide eyes, uncaring of the mud that would surely stain his jeans. “Please,” he said and reached up with his injured wrist. “Please heal me.” His voice broke near the end, but he didn’t seem to care. “I need it.”

Alarm flashed through Castiel. Dean never admitted to needing something, and Castiel often had to push Dean into accepting his healing grace. He stepped closer and cupped Dean’s face with one hand, and he watched as the human tilted his cheek into Castiel’s palm, pupils growing larger as his breaths turned ragged. 

And the way he stared up at Castiel—it was like Castiel was a pillar of worship, a savior for those who were lost. His soul vibrated with greed, with want, with anticipation, and when Castiel looked deeper, he finally saw what was going on. He could only stand there, horrified, because he was the cause for his dear friend’s downfall.

“Oh, Dean,” he breathed in sorrow. Remnants of his grace were latched onto Dean’s soul, but it was different from the brand that Castiel put there in Hell. These blue wisps were attempting to mold into something that was already whole, and when they couldn’t do that, they instead stuck to it like a leech, amplifying the feeling of grace whenever Castiel used his powers on Dean.

It was known that mixing angel grace and a human soul could lead to catastrophe, and Castiel despaired to see why the warning was necessary. 

Dean was addicted to angel grace.

“I’m not going to heal you,” Castiel informed him and started to pull away. “Not now, and not for a while.”

“But—” Dean cut himself off, lips parted in shock. His soul quivered, and so did his body, and nothing could have prepared Castiel for what his human charge did next.

Dean narrowed his eyes, and then his free hand dug into his injured wrist, and Castiel could hear the way his bones ground together as he gripped it tightly. He shook himself out of his stupor and lurched toward Dean, dragging the human up to stand.

“And what,” Castiel said frostily. “Do you think you’re doing?”

“You won’t heal me because it’s a sprain, right?” Dean said in that carefree way of his, but the edge of darkness to his words made Castiel’s feathers stand on end. “Well, you’ll have to do it when it’s a break, so…”

“So, you decided that breaking your arm before my very eyes was the next course of action?” Castiel demanded. He resisted the urge to shake his infuriating charge, but he could not blame him for these thoughts. Dean’s body shuddered, and the bags under his eyes seemed darker. The way he swallowed also told Castiel that he desperately craved a touch of grace.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Dean pleaded. “Please, Cas, please, just—I need it, Cas. I-I hate living this way, y’know? My skin itches when the feeling fades and my head starts goin’ fuzzy. The emptiness in my chest gets filled by your cold grace, and I’m starting to hate it whenever I feel warm.”

“No,” Castiel said firmly, and something in him _ached_ as he witnessed his favorite human break.

“Please,” Dean said, a glimmer of tears (actual tears) in his eyes. “I-I can’t do this anymore, Cas. It’s the only thing that makes me feel _normal,_ and I don’t—” He looked wild and crazed as he started pacing, running a hand through his hair. “I want it, Cas. No, I _need_ it, Cas, and if you’re not going to give it to me…”

And suddenly, he pulled out his demon-killing knife, knuckles turning white as he gripped the handle, and he lunged at Castiel. He was shocked enough to be knocked to the ground, and he felt the knife nick his throat. Castiel’s grace started leaking out of the wound, but before Dean could lean down and have the taste that he desired, Castiel reached up and placed a hand on Dean’s forehead, sick over the way his soul quivered with delight. 

“Sleep,” he commanded, and with the barest touch of grace to mind, he dragged Dean down into the depths of darkness. 

Castiel took a moment to breathe, and then he wrapped his arms around Dean’s slumped body to help him up. He watched as his soul quieted, the greed receding and leaving only tainted brightness. Castiel started up at the sky, where the stars twinkled on as if nothing happened, and he wondered how he was going to fix this.

He healed his cut with an idle thought and started to make his way back to where the Impala was parked. Sam was leaning against the hood, one leg extended and both arms crossed, and he sat up straighter as Castiel neared, brows furrowed.

“I’ve figured out the problem,” Castiel said flatly. He placed Dean in the backseat of the Impala and then fixed his eyes on Sam. “You were not far off from your suggestion.”

“Okay?” Sam said, confused. His eyes flicked over to Dean and back. “Shouldn’t you heal him, then? He’ll have a better time listening to our lecture if he’s not in pain.”

“I _can’t_ heal him,” Castiel replied with a small amount of frustration. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. It would do him no good to take it out on Sam. “Do you remember what I had to do when either of you, mostly Dean, had serious injuries?”

“Yeah, you had to feed us your grace,” Sam said slowly, still with a perplexed wrinkle in his brow. Comprehension dawned on him soon afterwards, followed by grim realization as he looked upon his brother’s sleeping form. “So,” he added quietly. “Are we going to Bobby’s?”

Castiel had the very human urge to sigh. “It will be the safest place for him to detox,” he said and slid into the passenger seat of the Impala. He hoped that Dean would be out until they got there because he wouldn’t put it past the human to throw himself out of the car for the chance to get healed by Castiel.

❦ ❦ ❦

Sam called ahead to inform Bobby of their journey. He was driving down an empty highway, his leg healed thanks to Castiel, and he seemed both agitated and worried. After he swerved onto the other lane, Castiel plucked the phone out of his hand and held it up to his ear.

“Bobby,” he said calmly. “I need you to prepare the panic room. Dean will be staying there indefinitely. I may have to add some additional wards to the walls just to be safe, but they should not ruin the ones that you already have up.”

The older hunter went silent for a moment, and then he sighed. “Will do,” he said, sounding weary. “Is it bad?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered simply.

“And you’ll give me all the details when ya get here?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” And with that, Bobby Singer hung up. 

Castiel locked the phone and handed it back to Sam, quietly observing the horizon. He extended his senses to check on Dean, relieved to see that he was still slumbering. His mind was agitated, though, so Castiel allowed himself to chase away those dreams, and he felt the strongest urge to wince when Dean’s soul shuddered at the barest touch of grace.

His detox was going to be long.

“I should have known,” Sam said eventually, his voice loud even over the rumble of the Impala’s engine. “I knew there was something up with him. He kept making these half-cocked decisions that led to him getting hurt, and he was always so ready to pray for you to heal us—him, I guess.” He reached up and rubbed one eye, but his exhaustion did not stop him from driving. “How are we going to fix this, Cas?” he asked quietly, sounding more like a child worried for their parent. “This is different from the demon blood. If we go back out there after this detox, then Dean will probably keep throwing himself at every monster just for a hit.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered solemnly. He rubbed the back of his neck and then clasped his hands together in his lap. “I could keep my healing to a minimum and only do it when the injuries are serious, but even then…”

“It’s still something,” Sam finished and sighed. “Like when he got his lung punctured, remember? You had to feed him so much…” He paused and then hummed thoughtfully. “I think that’s when it started,” he said. “Dean started acting off after that happened, and I thought it was the near-death experience that shook him up.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Castiel replied. “I fed him more than usual, and I had to push him to take it.” He glanced up at the mirror and observed Dean’s slack face. “But I’d do it again,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “If it was a choice between Dean living and Dean dying, then I’d feed him all of my grace.”

The concept of it was very frightening, but even more so was the _devotion_ that Castiel felt over the thought. He has never cared so much for a singular thing, but that all changed when he met the human he raised from Hell. Now, Castiel would do anything to make sure Dean lived, and he already sacrificed so much for him, willingly and wholeheartedly.

It should be blasphemous to care greatly for one human, but Castiel discovered that he did not care. Everything he did in the past, he would do all over again because it would lead to this moment—Dean breathing in the back seat, lost to the world, while his soul gleamed brightly.

The only change that Castiel wanted to make would be the addiction he caused in Dean. Would it have made a difference if he used an alternate method to heal Dean? Or would they have ended up on this path regardless of Castiel’s choices?

“I don’t know if he’ll be able to escape this,” Castiel commented quietly, and guilt unfurled in his chest at the very thought. 

“He will,” Sam said confidently. “Dean’s strong.”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to leave him when he’s broken and bleeding.”

❦ ❦ ❦

Getting Dean into the panic room was easy. He remained unconscious, head lolling against Castiel’s shoulder as he carried the human down the stairs. Dean didn’t stir when Castiel placed him on the cot in the center of the room. He was still injured, but Castiel didn’t dare to try and use his grace to heal it. 

“D’ya think we should restrain him?” Bobby asked from the doorway, and Castiel pondered the question.

“We may have to,” he said finally and turned to look at him. Sam was standing beside him, staring at his brother with something akin to heartbreak in his eyes, and Castiel let out a breath. A human gesture that brought him a sense of comfort. “I’m afraid that he’ll hurt himself just to get me to heal him.”

“You think that’s something he’d do?” Sam asked warily.

“He tried to break his arm earlier,” Castiel replied.

Sam’s mouth twisted, and then he ducked his head with a sigh. “How about I stay with him and cuff him after he wakes up?” he offered. “I don’t think he’ll like it if he wakes up strapped to the bed. Might shake up some bad memories.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. “Of course.” He rose as Sam stepped into the room and met Bobby’s gaze. “Perhaps both of you should stay down here,” he suggested and started to wander around the room. He let his angel blade slide into existence and sliced his palm open, using his grace-tinged blood to draw some sigils onto the walls. 

Sam’s demon blood addiction allowed his powers to come out during the withdrawal, and while Castiel was not a hundred percent certain that the same would happen with Dean, he’d rather have some precautions in place. Sigils to suppress angel grace (should the power come out), and, of course, some to keep Dean hidden because if it were to come out, then angels in Heaven would certainly be alerted to the disturbance.

And they would come down and destroy the abomination—the human with angel grace attached to his soul.

Castiel swallowed and quickly continued his task. He vanished the blood that had dripped onto the floor and healed his wound. The glowing sigils pulsed with warmth around him, and he slowly made his way over to the door. 

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said quietly. 

He left before Sam or Bobby could say anything, and then he flew up to the roof of Bobby’s home. Castiel wrapped his wings around his body and stared out into nothingness, praying to a distant Father for Dean Winchester to make it out of this ordeal unscathed.

 _Knowing Him,_ Castiel thought bitterly. _This is simply another test that Dean has to pass._

❦ ❦ ❦

Dawn broke before Dean woke up, and Castiel watched as the sun bled into the night sky, creating a palette of pink, orange, yellow, and purple. He let out a breath, and it misted in front of him, indicating the cold temperature that he could not feel. Castiel rose when blue started to edge into the sky, shaking frost off his feathers. He appeared inside the house, and then he attempted to prepare coffee the way Dean showed him.

Sam eventually came up, a scowl on his face as he raided Bobby’s fridge and pulled out some eggs. “We cuffed him to the bed,” he said and grabbed a pan from one of Bobby’s cupboards. “But he kept asking for you.”

“Did you tell him that I was here?” Castiel asked, only mildly alarmed.

“No, but, uh, I think he knows.” Sam paused in his movements, shoulders slumped. “You know, when I was deep in my addiction, I could… sense demons. A part of me believed that I could smell their blood, too, and—”

“You think the same is happening to Dean,” Castiel finished. “Except he can sense my angel grace.”

Sam offered a small, pained smile and then continued working. Castiel eventually poured some coffee into a mug for Sam, who drank it gladly. When Sam finished frying the eggs, he piled them onto a plate and walked downstairs. Castiel followed, and he made sure to keep himself cloaked as the door to the panic room swung open. He could hear the murmur of voices when Sam entered.

But then Dean looked out the door, straight at him, and his eyes gleamed with that same hunger from the other night. Castiel, unnerved and off-balance, flew back outside again and pretended he didn’t hear Dean’s soul crying out for him.

❦ ❦ ❦

The sun had already set, and stars were slowly appearing in the sky when Sam’s panicked prayers caught his attention. He appeared at the bottom of the steps that led to the panic room and saw that the door was wide open. Castiel could see Sam sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around a struggling Dean, while Bobby stood beside them, an expression of sorrow on his face.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Dean tried to hurt himself,” Bobby answered with a heavy sigh. “Slammed his head against the floor a few times. Managed to get a cut, but we don’t know if there’s more damage.”

“Cas!” Dean called out suddenly, but Sam didn't turn them. “I know you’re there, Cas! Please, just—I need it, Cas. Need you to fix me.”

Castiel lurched forward, his body instinctively reacting to the urge to make it all better, but he quickly got control of himself. He clenched his hand at his side and assessed the damage from afar, relieved to note that there was nothing serious. If Dean hadn’t been cuffed to the bed, he was certain the damage would be greater.

“He doesn’t need my healing,” Castiel said finally and moved to walk out the door. “It would be best to restrain him for now.”

“It’ll stop him from hurting himself, that’s for sure,” Bobby muttered and then sighed. “Alright. You go back to doing what you’re doing, we’ll take it from here.”

Castiel left the panic room, but he did not go outside just yet. He cloaked himself once more and lingered in the doorway, watching as Sam dragged his brother onto the bed, attaching the restraints to his ankles. They moved the cuff to his injured wrist and restrained the other one, all while Dean struggled and snarled, calling out to Castiel.

“Cas!” he cried, head tossed back against the pillow. The lights flickered dangerously, and unease gathered in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. “Cas, please!”

He ignored it and went outside again.

❦ ❦ ❦

Castiel returned later in the night and stood outside the panic room with Sam. They were forced to listen to Dean’s struggles, and Castiel felt his chest twist whenever he heard Dean begging, and the raw emotion in his voice threatened to undo him.

“I’m starting to realize how hard it was for him,” Sam said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I can’t stand the fact that he’s in so much pain, but I know that going in there will make things worse. If I see him the way I felt during my detox, it’ll probably break me.”

He suddenly looked older, haggard, and Castiel wished he could make it better. Instead, he tipped his head forward and stared at the ground, Dean’s pained screams tearing through the silence they created. He kept calling out for Sam, for Bobby, even for his mother and father, but Castiel’s name appeared most of the time, and Dean’s voice was always pleading and broken whenever he spoke it.

Castiel wanted to rush in there and cure Dean of all his ailments. He wanted to sweep his grace over Dean’s soul and cleanse the darkness that threatened to take hold of him, but he knew that it would only make things worse. So, he suppressed this desire and buried it deep within, and he tipped his head back against the wall as he tried to tune out Dean’s screams.

If anyone ever asked about the most painful moment in his life, Castiel would confess that it was this moment right here: Castiel having all the power to heal Dean but knowing he couldn’t because it would only harm him further.

There was the sound of something breaking, followed by another wretched scream, and Sam flinched, hands clenched at his side. “I need to get some air,” he muttered in a pained voice and then made his way up the stairs.

Castiel watched him leave and wished he could do the same.

“I’ll stay here,” he called after him. “You should rest.”

Sam said nothing, but Castiel sensed the relief coming off him. After the younger Winchester disappeared, Castiel fixed himself so he was leaning against the wall, gaze fixed on the door to the panic room. Dean was quiet now, but Castiel thought he could hear his ragged breathing, most likely exhausted after everything so far.

And then—

“I know you’re out there,” Dean called from the other side of the door, his voice muffled and yet… _smooth._ “I can practically taste you, _Cas._ ” He drew out the nickname, and it carried none of the familiar warmth it usually held. “Like ozone in the back of my throat, and the taste of nature after it rains. Powerful and dangerous, all contained in a little vessel.”

Castiel’s head thunked against the wall, but he did not respond.

“What would it take for you to come in here?” Dean continued, and Castiel heard the jangle of his cuffs. “Do I drag a knife down my wrists? Or do I have to gut myself open?” A low, breathy chuckle, so out of place. “I still remember how to do it,” he crooned next. “I’m sure I could redirect it onto myself.”

 _He is trying to get a rise out of you,_ Castiel told himself and squeezed his eyes shut. _Dean wants you to come in so you could be tempted to heal him, or so he could knock you down and take the grace by force. Do not fall for his tricks._

And yet, it still hurt.

“Do you think it’s in my blood?” Dean asked next. He didn’t seem to care that the conversation was one-sided. “Do you think if I split my skin open, I’ll get a taste of your grace when I flatten my tongue against the wound?”

Castiel buried his hands in his hair and breathed deeply, fervently wishing that he hadn’t offered to guard Dean for the night. Anything would be better than hearing the strange lilt to his voice, demon-like in nature.

It frightened him.

Dean quieted down afterwards, but Castiel occasionally heard his laughter, hard-edged and unkind. Castiel wrapped his wings around himself and tried to breathe around the tightness in his chest, but no matter what he did, it wouldn’t go away.

Night continued, and the other two souls in the house were fast asleep. Castiel knew that Dean was not. He took a glance at his soul and had a moment to himself where he relished in its brightness, but there was something _off_ about it, and it made his feathers stand on end.

“Dean?” he called out with trepidation and placed a hand on the door. Dean’s soul pulsated sluggishly, spiking with hints of pleasure, shame, relief. Worry pushed him to open the door, and when he entered the room, all he saw was Dean lying on the bed, blood smeared across his mouth and injured wrist bleeding sluggishly; he managed to get it out of the cuff.

“Dean!” he exclaimed and bent over him. Castiel gripped Dean’s chin and forced their eyes to meet, frowning when he saw the dilated pupils. “What did you do?”

“Found your grace,” Dean sang, and his wrist flopped against the bed. “It was inside me all along, angel.” And then he laughed, though it sounded more like a giggle. “I’ve got Castiel inside me!”

Castiel scowled and moved to the other side of the room where Bobby kept a medkit. He took it out and sat on the edge of the bed, and then he gently held Dean’s wrist in his hand. There was a bite mark where his pulse beat, and Castiel wondered how long it took for Dean to break skin.

He ignored Dean’s quiet babble and patched up the man’s wrist. Castiel kept his touch light, and he made sure his grace was far from the human’s reach, and after he was done, he noticed that Dean had dislocated his thumb—most likely done to free himself from the cuff.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmured, frustration laced into his words. “You are a very infuriating human.”

Dean chuckled and stared up at him with hazy eyes. “But you still like me,” he drawled. “You still like little ol’ me, even when I’m at my worst.”

Castiel sighed and did not respond. Instead, he brushed two knuckles over Dean’s cheek, and he watched as Dean tilted his face toward the touch, green eyes carrying a hint of desperation. “You should sleep,” he said quietly.

Dean’s face fell, and there was a hint of fear on it. “Will you stay?” he asked, vulnerable and meek, so different from earlier. “I-I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I’ll stay,” Castiel promised, and he pulled his hand away. “You will not have nightmares while I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Dean breathed and dropped his head against the pillow. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, and awareness entered his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said slowly. “The only way I can get you to touch me is when you heal me, and I like the feeling too much to let it go.”

Castiel’s fingers twitched. Oh, how he wished to express how that wasn’t true at all. 

Dean should know that Castiel struggled daily to keep himself in check whenever they were in the same room, how he was always desperate to lay a hand upon the human under his care. There were moments where Castiel wanted to sweep his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone, his lips, just to see a blush creep onto his face. A part of him always wanted to slot his hand over where his brand still rested on Dean’s left side and feel their connection sing strongly.

And when he started to become more human than angel, those needs shifted. Castiel was feeling so many things, but desire was prominent whenever he was around Dean. It lingered in the back of his throat, heady enough to make his head spin.

Castiel wanted to slip his hands beneath Dean’s shirt and feel the man shiver, he wanted to press his fingers against the spots he knew would make Dean moan, he wanted to grip Dean’s hips and thighs and leave a different kind of brand that only he would see. Most of all, Castiel wanted to wrap a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and drag him in for a kiss, feel that plush mouth welcome him with ease, and feel the other man shudder against him, both hungry for more.

So, Castiel chose not to touch Dean not because he didn’t want to, no, it was because he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Sleep,” he commanded gently. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean’s eyes slipped shut, and a smile lingered on his face even as his breathing evened out. Castiel continued to stare down at him, not minding the red blemish across his pink lips and pale chin. He was haggard and thin, and the scruff on his face looked darker, but Castiel still found him beautiful.

He stayed there even when dawn broke, even when Sam and Bobby woke up and moved about upstairs, even when Dean’s eyes fluttered open, and that same smile appeared again, much softer and sweeter than before. 

“Hey, stranger,” he murmured and shifted on the bed. Dean grimaced when the cuff jostled his bandaged wrist, but he didn’t complain about it. “Thought you’d be off hiding by now.” He suddenly shivered, and sweat broke out across his brow. 

“I said I would stay,” Castiel replied and placed the back of his hand on Dean’s forehead. Dean whimpered quietly and pushed his head up into the touch, so Castiel allowed himself the chance to linger, and he combed his fingers through Dean’s hair. “A fever,” he commented. “One hundred and one point three.”

“You know that just from a touch?” Dean wondered and shivered again. “Ugh, god. This sucks.”

“You’ll get through this, Dean,” Castiel said confidently. All he carried was faith for his favored human. “And then we’ll figure out a way to move past this together.”

“Can’t heal me anymore,” Dean said, and he sounded resigned to the idea. “No matter how much I beg, or if I try to hurt myself again, you can’t heal me, Cas.” He wet his lips and then turned his stare to the fan above them. “Don’t like what it does to me,” he added quietly. “I hurt you, Cas, just so I could get some of your grace. That’s messed up.”

“I forgave you the moment it happened.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I did,” Castiel told him. “And all I care about now is your health.” He kept stroking Dean’s hair, privately enjoying the way Dean seemed to melt into the pillow. 

“M’cold,” Dean muttered after a while, voice light and sleepy.

Castiel said nothing, but he did pull back and stood, removing his trench coat and draping it over Dean’s body. Dean stared up at him with wide eyes that were filled with shock, but he did not ask for Castiel to remove the garment. Dean actually tucked his nose beneath the collar, and then he breathed in deeply.

“Always smell good, Cas,” Dean slurred, and before Castiel could think of a response, he was out, back to darkness and dreams.

Castiel stared down at him, and his hand trembled minutely at his side. “As do you,” he said quietly and sat beside Dean again to continue his silent vigil.

❦ ❦ ❦

Dean rode out the sickness caused by his withdrawal with frustration, but that did not stop him from asking Castiel to sit beside him while he slept, covered by the trench coat as he drifted into a dreamless sleep. Anything he ate would come back up for a while, but eventually, the fever broke, and he was able to keep down the famous tomato rice soup that Dean always praised.

Castiel had a taste after Dean got halfway through one bowl, and he could, objectively, understand why Dean enjoyed it so much. In spite of the molecular taste that he couldn’t get past, Castiel felt the warmth of it spreading through his body, and the texture made it easy for him to swallow.

It was perfect for a sick person.

The rest of Dean’s recovery was relatively easy. There were no other issues with the angelic grace that Castiel fed him, and it did not flare up inside him like he thought. They still had to deal with Dean trying to hurt himself on occasion, and even Dean’s personality flips. He’d only do it when he sensed that Castiel was near, trying to coax him into the panic room with honeyed words and threats of self-harm.

Eventually, that faded too, and when Castiel checked him one day, he sensed only scattered remnants of grace. These wisps looked less like a parasite and more like something that was already integrated into Dean’s soul, woven in and pulsating in time with his heartbeat.

“You should be good,” he announced after he made this observation and proceeded to uncuff Dean from the bed. His wrist and ankle were healing on their own, and Castiel made sure to not offer his help. He didn’t want to set Dean back so soon.

“Awesome,” Dean said with a smirk. It looked out of place on his tired face, and Castiel could only hope that he’d be back to his usual self soon. “Thanks.”

❦ ❦ ❦

Another hunt, another injury, only this time all Dean got was a cut on his face and bruised ribs. He didn’t ask to be healed after the vampires were dealt with, and he offered a smile in greeting after Castiel burned the bodies with a simple thought.

“You’re bleeding,” Castiel observed when he neared, and his hand reached up unprompted, thumbing away the drop of blood that threatened to trail down his cheek. It smeared across his unmarred skin, and Castiel didn’t try to wipe it away. Instead, his body moved without thought, and he brought the thumb up to his mouth and licked it clean.

Castiel was distantly aware of Dean’s widening eyes, but most of his focus was directed toward the pleasure zinging through his grace. The taste of Dean’s blood exploded on his tongue, pure and wholly him, but containing small pockets of lightning that could only be attributed to remnants of his grace.

But most of all, he could _feel_ Dean’s emotions through that one drop of blood, and it made his chest swell with them—the warmth of contentment, the glimmer of happiness, the rush of victory and satisfaction, and even the chasm of yearning.

He let out a ragged breath, and then his gaze was caught by Dean, who peered at him in concern. “You alright?” he asked, and he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel wet his lips as his grace surged forward, desperate to have more from Dean. “Yes,” he said after he clamped down on it. “I’m fine, Dean.” He leaned into Dean’s space, unable to help himself, and added, “We should leave.”

They walked to the Impala together, shoulders brushing on occasion. Castiel’s breath hitched every time it happened, and he was certain he could hear Dean’s quiet gasps as well, but whenever he glanced over, the hunter was composed, as if nothing happened.

“Everything good?” Sam asked when they neared. He wasn’t injured, thankfully, but he seemed tired.

“Everything’s fine,” Dean answered and moved towards the trunk to put his machete away. “Cas burned them up all nice and crispy, so we don’t have to worry about lugging the bodies around.”

They all piled into the car (Castiel didn’t need to fly off for once, not that he wanted to), and Dean drove them back to the motel. Castiel kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s form, and their eyes met in the rearview mirror now and again. Whenever it happened, Castiel felt a rush of electricity flood through his grace, and then heat would pool in his gut.

Such carnal, human desires. 

Castiel craved to feel more, to fall deeper into these emotions until he lost himself completely. And he knew the only way he could achieve that would be with Dean.

When they arrived at the motel, Dean parked the car and let out a sigh. “Feel like I could sleep for a week,” he grumbled, and their eyes met in the mirror again. Castiel shifted when he felt a tingle of something pass through his feathers and down his spine, but he did not dare look away.

Sam exited the car and slammed the door, and Castiel broke his stare with Dean to glance at the younger Winchester. He looked exasperated, but there was a hint of a smirk on his face when he said, “I’m gonna book another room. You two have fun.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean called after him when Sam walked away, but Sam just waved a hand and disappeared into the front office. Dean turned to look at Castiel, perplexed, but the angel was struck dumb by his exposed throat.

“Seriously,” Dean said. “What’s his issue?”

Castiel clenched his jaw when he was overcome with the urge to sink his teeth into Dean’s skin, if only to discover what kind of noise Dean would make, if only to have another taste.

“I think,” he said finally, voice rougher than normal. “we should go inside the room. Together.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and he wet his lips. Castiel tracked the pink flash of tongue with a hunger that surprised him. “You could get us there quicker,” he said after a beat, and Castiel had a hand wrapped around his arm before he finished speaking, flying them into the room.

After that, it was a tangle of clothes and sheets, and frenzied hands pressed against bodies. Castiel followed through with his previous train of thought and buried his teeth in Dean’s throat, feeling something inside him shake apart when the taste of him exploded on his tongue. He groaned low in his throat and slipped a hand between them where Dean was already hard and leaking.

He was just as affected as Castiel, then.

Castiel lapped at Dean’s bite, his hand stroking Dean languidly. He could hear Dean’s breathing pick up, could feel the way his hips rocked subtly, silently begging for more. Castiel felt a little crazed over hearing, feeling, and tasting Dean. He almost didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Cas,” Dean choked out and weakly grasped at his coat. Castiel pulled back to gaze down at him as he writhed beneath the angel, red lips parted and green eyes hazy. “Cas, _please._ ”

“Tell me what you need,” Castiel said with a twist of his hand. Dean shuddered against him, back arching off the motel bed. He waited until Dean settled, until he was looking at Castiel, and then he commanded, “Tell me, Dean.”

“You,” Dean gasped. “I need you, Cas.”

 _I know,_ Castiel almost replied but refrained from doing so. He could see Dean’s soul shuddering as it called out to him in a prayer that only he could hear. Castiel’s grace coiled tightly, desperate to be released, desperate to touch Dean’s soul and intertwine together in the most intimate way.

Castiel pressed their lips together, tongues brushing in a way that made them both groan, the taste of blood mixed in. He released Dean and planted that hand on the space beside his head, his other one creeping up Dean’s left arm. Static seemed to build as he neared his mark, and Castiel broke the kiss to stare into Dean’s eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he said and slotted his hand onto the brand.

He watched as Dean broke apart under the pleasure of grace, and Castiel was not that far off from feeling the same thing. Soul and grace reached for each other, twisting together until he wasn’t sure where one began and one ended. Castiel dropped his weight onto his charge, clinging to his arm as they rocked against each other, names gasped into each other’s mouths as they kissed and kissed.

And when they finally reached completion, everything going white around Castiel, he realized that he could never go back to not touching Dean. If this is what it felt like every time they’d be together, achieving a union so holy that it would take divine intervention to separate them, then Castiel would never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://leviathancas.tumblr.com/)


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